


sheets suddenly worn threadbare

by adotham (Bates)



Series: The moment always vanishing. [4]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: F/M, Grief, Letters, M/M, Modern AU, Queerplatonic Relationships, angst with fluff, aromantic Martha Manning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-12
Updated: 2016-03-12
Packaged: 2018-05-26 08:13:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6230890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bates/pseuds/adotham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a modern lams au //  A second answer to Alexander’s letter, written one sleepless night when John was weary and struck by exhaustion, but there was no way he’d sleep. A letter about missing his wife, the truth of their marriage and the wonders of writing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sheets suddenly worn threadbare

Alexander, you asked about the book in your letter and that got me thinking. I know I just send you a letter back and you’ll need time to reply, but I wanted to write this down anyway, to thank you for sparking my creativity again. To talk about more things. I’m sorry if this ends up being long and winded; it’s currently six am and I haven’t even touched my sheets. At this point, there is no point. Frances will wake up in two hours anyway. 

Ever since I put the manuscript away, I haven’t thought about it. My agent has been allowing me some time to grieve and has been kind and forgiving with the lack of updates. She was a good friend of Martha’s and understands that her death and the path we took to get there didn’t allow me to write. Even now, Theodosia – you might know her, she’s Aaron Burr’s wife – is patient with me. To quote her, I should take my time and deal with this. Publishing a book can wait.

But I can’t. You rubbed off on me, Alexander. You always used to work without stopping, even when you were sick or just generally feeling bad. Now, I am that person. I know that little George, Matthew, and Claire are somewhere out there, waiting for me to continue their story. There are drawings on my computer that accompany the pages and notes strewn all across the office.

So last night, I set myself behind my desk after Frances went to bed and I wrote. I’m almost ashamed to admit that my muscles cramped up so soon. Around five am, I had to drag myself down to grab a cup of coffee and flex them. Even now, they’re sore.

Before you ask, _yes,_ Frances has been laughing at her _silly papa_ all day. That’s alright, she hasn’t been doing a lot of laughing in the past few weeks, it’s a good thing to hear.

 

Hearing you talk about our college days got me thinking, Alexander. Especially about the nights on the roof spend smoking and looking at the stars. You really are an emotional drunk, aren’t you? I remember one night very clearly. Do you?

We laid on my bed, your head on my belly. We were smoking and laughing. I can’t remember if we had any beers, do you? I think you were, at least, a little drunk, because I remember you propping your arms up and just _looking_ at me for a solid minute.

When I asked what you were doing, you said you were counting the stars. Quote word for word, because I wrote it down afterward. You were counting the stars on my skin. You told me that freckles were like angel kisses and that I had a lot. It _had_ to mean that I was an angel’s most prized possession; the universe. As an after thought, you said that you wouldn’t ever have that universe and that it slipped out of your hands.

Up until this day, I still don’t know how you came up with all of that. Something tells me you don’t either.

We had many days like this. Days where it was too unsafe to go outside, days neither of us had any energy or just days that university work was too much. Do you know why this night  was so different? Because my heart fell. You said the words I’d been feeling those past weeks.

As we smoked outside or even when we slept together, I could _feel_ something was wrong. I always could. Like you were miles away and reaching you was pointless. It’s around the time you first met Angelica, wasn’t it? Did Angelia set you and Eliza up or did the two of you fall in love without her help?

I’m sorry if I’m imposing. You don’t need to answer that.

 

Alexander, you slipped out of my fingers after three years and perhaps it’s one of the bigger mistakes that I’ve made. Perhaps it isn’t. Martha was there; an open invitation to seem normal to the outside world. Know that Martha and I did love each other. _We did._

Living together and having a child together made us the best of friends. We knew each other in and out, every little detail. We had a schedule, we both worked hard to get where we wanted to be. She was a photographer and was often gone, but we made it work. It worked exactly in the ways we needed it to; comfort, friendship and perhaps normativity.

What I am about to say, I hope you keep to yourself. Maybe share with Eliza, but no one else. I do not want people to paint a picture of Martha based upon rumors that grew and grew. I care too much to have her memory be dishonored like that.

Martha told me she was aromantic after we moved in together. She was already pregnant at that point – Frances was a mistake on both of our parts, but a mistake I love more than you loved the three little freckles at the base of my spine – and in a way, the only reason we did move in together was because of it. Of course, because I did not know, she told me what being aromantic was, how she felt and didn’t feel.

I don’t think I’ve ever been so relieved as in that moment. What she was saying was that this relationship wouldn’t feel romantic to her and that it would be okay if I wanted to break it off because of it. Perhaps the only reason she told me was because she would force herself into more ‘romantic’ things and I would notice they troubled her.

You know what I did? I just laughed. Not my wisest decision, I know that. She stared for a little while. Perhaps she was afraid that I would start yelling. Obviously, I didn’t. We talked and set boundaries, I told her I am bisexual – oh how foolish I was back then - and into men as well. Martha was good with it. She just smiled and asked if you were my ex. I told her the truth. She invited me into the world of lgbtqia+, taught me terms like polyamory, being aromantic or asexual, the whole idea of there being a spectrum. I owe her more than I have ever been able to repay.

In a way, she was the first person that I told about being on the spectrum. Later, she too was the first one I told about being gay instead of bi. She just smiled and nodded, said that in a way she had known. To use her words _you always seemed to be so far away._

So there’s that. That long paragraph just to say that our marriage was in a way a cover up for both of us. Not that either of us ever regretted that decision. Alex, we had a wonderful wedding with everyone we loved there. There was great food, a reason to party. The both of us were happy and Frances spend a day dressed in a gorgeous dress and as the best, non-walking flower girl I’ve ever seen. You were there, you saw how much we enjoyed the day.

 

 

 

I probably wrote too much about her, but I miss talking about Martha, talking about her little smiles or the way she would dance with Frances in her arms. How she loved the cheesiest songs. The fifteenth of February was our platonic version of Valentines Day with cheap chocolate, a few movies and home cooked meals. Especially when she was still pregnant, I loved that day. Loved it because she allowed me to use her belly as a canvas and didn’t wash it off for days. I painted her a galaxy and told her that she was like that galaxy; always connected, never dependent.

With Frances, the day was all about Frances. It was going on a walk with her and letting her sleep on our chests. I remember taking a bath with her, one of my hands supporting her head and keeping her safe at all times while she kicked and laughed. Martha just watched, fond and affectionate. These are the beautiful days. They are.

Now I’m doing it again. I’m sorry.

 

Now, back to writing. I’m sure you don’t care about my writing either, but at least, you’ll appreciate it more than me talking about Martha.

Like I said, I am finishing this little book. Matthew, Claire, and George will get their story on the page, grief or not. Claire is based upon Martha majorly – there is a reason there is no romantic subplot between her and either of the boys – and it is helping me work through losing her. It may not be the loss of a lover, but the loss of a significant other and it still hurts.

Matthew and George are two dragon slayers. Dark skinned and bravado-filled. They hear of a tale about a princess trapped in a tower and despite having just met, run down to rescue her. Along the way, they face challenges. It’s your standard children’s book. Except that there is an intense relationship between Matthew and George that while played off as best friends, is more. Claire is strong and flat out tells the boys they don’t stand a chance with her.

Alexander, remember what you said in your letter, about wanting to make the world safe for Philip to grow up in? Let me help you. Let me be there in the cultural field of it all. Children’s books may not be a lot, but they can be a start. Children learn so much from what they read, what they’re exposed to.

There is so much more we can do.

 

 

Again, thank you. I probably shouldn’t be sending you this letter, but I’m going to anyway. I'm sorry, again.

With love,

John

 

**Author's Note:**

> You can also find this fic on [tumblr](http://confusedjimmy.tumblr.com/post/140929368925/sheets-suddenly-worn-threadbare-a-modern-lams-au)


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